It’s certainly not all about the raviolis at Christmas, but then again …

Every year when the discovery takes place, it takes me back to a happy childhood. We were free, unlike today it seems. Bikes were key. We could hop on and ride, ride, ride – to play basketball, or swim at Garm and Ang’s house or go to school.
As a toddler, I couldn’t say grandma, I’m told. It came out as “Garm” and being the first, I had dibs on naming rights and all the grandchildren who came after fondly called our Italian matriarch “Garm.” At 96, she was the last of my ancestors to leave this world, and I miss her dearly.
As matriarch of a large group, she taught me about gentleness, acceptance and optimism. “Garm” embodied the line in the famous Desiderata prose poem, “As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.” In fact, she embodied quite a bit of Desiderata wisdom. It’s a good reminder read, and it sits in a plaque on my desk at work … “Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is perennial as the grass …”
But enough deep chatter, let’s talk about the ravioli.
There are two iconic food items seared into my soul. Both were served at celebration times, and always at Christmas. The first belongs to grandmother Derry. Nana’s clam dip is to die for. At our “Very Derry” Christmas party this year, Miss Jenny told me she witnessed a party within a party, steadily grazing within reach of the Ruffles potato chips and clam dip. That makes me smile. Nana would get a kick out of that. Her recipe is well loved.
This year, I made sure my youngest, sweet Mariah, went through the clam dip process with me step by step. When I’m gone, there should still be clam dip.
But back to the ravs. No offense to Nana – I love the clam dip, and it’s great on bread under the broiler the morning after with a fresh sprinkle of paprika on top. But raviolis were, as my kids used to say, “the bomb.” Grandfather Angelo, and “Garm” made them from scratch. I even remember my great grandmother, Nonni, sprinkling the flour and placing sheets of ravioli carefully in boxes for freezing. Hundreds were made at a time. It was always a big production and, when Mom needed a quick meal on a busy day, we would stop by Garm and Ang’s and raid the huge freezer in the garage. A box – maybe two – of ravs and a carton of the most delicious sauce in the universe.  Ravs in a Bolognese bath are where my taste bud memories begin and end.
Thankfully over the years, Miss Jenny has perfected the Bolognese sauce recipe. It takes a day – the veal, pork and beef simmering and cooking down in the milk broth while the house fills with whiffs of warm goodness.  We sat at the big table at Garm’s in a formal setting for Christmas. There were 16 or so, not as many as at Nana and Gramp’s house where a big table just wasn’t enough. There, always a few more tables had to be set up in the big square foyer where “the kids” sat accompanied by  adults who had lost the big table lottery drawing. 
Anyway, if I didn’t mention it directly, it’s true. Spoiled by childhood Christmases I was indeed. Both grandparents were within a couple of miles. I could ride my bike to visit either house – or both – no problem, and on Christmas Day we went from our house to Garm and Ang’s house to Nana and Gramp’s house for an incredibly dazzling spectacle of a day filled with family, friends, food and frivolity. Man, it was a blast.
Looking back as I can now at 59, I’m sure it was exhausting for my parents, but as a boy there weren’t enough hours in the day – or the night. From Christmas morning, when my sister Tamra and I would wake up at some ungodly hour to see if the stockings were indeed hung by the chimney with care and that Santa had eaten his cookie and had taken the reindeer their carrots, to the last bellow of the Italian “Andiamo!” from my Irish father at Nana and Gramp’s house, we soaked it all in. 
The memories are thick.
Aunt Tante, who wasn’t really our aunt, would literally bring the cocktail crowd at the Derry’s to tears with an a capella rendition of “Danny Boy” with her lilting Irish voice. The ballad of leaving and loss touched all the hearts as one. 
At Ang and Garm’s , the raviolis ravished all taste buds as one. Just thinking about the aroma makes my mouth water. More than one helping was a given. Trust me, anybody with an Italian grandmother, has a dish that’s branded on the brain and can take you back on a magic carpet ride to the best table on earth.
Those Camelot days have long vanished from my world. There were no heirs apparent to the thrones of my grandparents. But Jackson and Tyler, my grandchildren, are 4 and 2, and they live within a couple of miles. Maybe someday they can ride their bikes over, though the world is a different place.
Meanwhile, we’ll have 30 or so for Christmas, two days late this year since our middle daughter, nurse Cayla in Nashville, has to work Christmas Day.  Maybe I can convince Mariah, the singing one, to learn “Danny Boy.” Family, friends, food, frivolity and warm, huggable memories await.
Oh, and that discovery I opened with … it’s a small 50-something-year-old bean bag Santa, soft and worn from boyhood games. When I discover it tucked away in the ornament box, Christmas comes flooding back and I smile through misty eyes.
Reach Editor Mark Derry at

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